


Probability of the Aftermath

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Holding Hands, Lots of boundary crossing, Mission Fic, Post Mission, answered prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: “What are you doing?” He asks with steady steps towards the bedroom. Illya does not tear his gaze from hers as her hands follow through his hair and then her thumbs drag along his jaw, tracing his bottom lip.“Getting lost.”(A collection of answered prompts)





	1. You Love Him

**Turningleafposts asked: "You love him." - Gallya**

“You love him.”

It’s not a question, it’s an accusation that strikes her hard in the chest. Her throat tightens and the muscle trapped in the cage of her ribs skips a beat as she swallows hard, not tearing her gaze from the road. Snow is coming down in heavy sheets. It no longer looks light and soft to the touch, instead it pelts down on the windshield, heavy and foreboding. Gaby shifts gears and keeps her grip on the steering wheel tight. Her knuckles are bloodless and the muscle in her jaw ticks as she keeps her lips pulled into a thin line. She refuses to relent, even if he is bleeding all over her backseat.

Solo’s obnoxious little curl sticks to his forehead and in the passing overhead street lights, she sees the sweat sliding down his handsome face as he leans between the seats and presses two fingers to their partner’s throat. Illya swats his hand away, this much she can see in the sliver of a rear view mirror. He’s alive and conscious enough to knock the American away, but his eyes are still closed and his suit is torn. Where the fabric is shredded so is his skin and Gaby can only stomp harder on the accelerator, willing the little car to go, go, go.

Illya mutters in his native tongue, gibberish – is what Solo says. None of it can be translated by her, she’s still learning, still bothering him to teach her basic vocabulary that spans from curses to daring little flirts he never quite answers. Illya is paler than normal, hat lost, five o’clock shadow dusting across his sharp jaw. For once he looks weak and it makes her stomach turn sour. Seeing him so down, so defeated, it hurts her. There’s no explanation for it besides the accusation that lingers in the cab of the car. Solo and his brash ways, wanting to make her react, he wants to break her out of her worried thoughts of finding a hospital as the roads freeze over, as the road winds into nothing but a dark abyss.

Another groan sounds from the back seat just as she sees the sign on the side of the road, a city limits sign reflects in the headlights and relief temporarily blinds her. Gaby does not think of the enemies chasing their coat tails, she does not think of another gunman keeping close by, she can only think of rushing him into the comfort of a safe house and calling for an extraction. Gaby turns off the main road, zips the stolen car through a sleepy neighborhood and listens as Solo curses, caught between the seats as he checks on Illya once more, “Do you think you could slow down?”

“Not a chance,” Gaby breathes out the words and she catches Solo’s bright gaze as she cuts around another corner, checks the mirror for the tell tale signs of a henchman but no one follows in the thick downpour of the snow. Gaby makes her way back to the packed street of their safehouse and wedges the car between two inexpensive vehicles, leaving the keys in the ignition for a lucky thief to steal in the night. Solo carries the majority of Illya’s weight, but Gaby does not let go of his hand.

They sew him up and Gaby gets a drink with red sticky fingers.

“You love him.” Solo tries again around three in the morning when she’s curled herself into Illya’s side and takes her time tracing the side of his handsome face.

“Yes.” She answers in the dead of night behind the shadows the moon casts into the room.


	2. Enough To Drink

****

**Anonymous asked: "I think you've had enough to drink" - Gallya**

She drinks until her insides feels warm and soft, bones practically liquefied as she sways in the doorway, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Gaby’s soft brown hair is loosely pulled back with pieces of it sticking to her warm cheeks that carry a pink flush from the night’s activities. Her lashes are heavy but she refuses to close her eyes as she pulls the bottle back up and swallows down the last ounce of warm vodka. It burns across her tongue and scorches the back of her throat as she forces it down and wipes at the residue on her lips with the back of her hand.

It’s too hot outside to spend the evening on the balcony. Her chemise is already sticking to her skin and she wants to forget the mission all together. Gaby wants to wipe it from her mind, refuse to let it be another nightmare that keeps her up in the dead of night. There were so many dead bodies in that warehouse, so many young people – lost. Gaby moves to take another swig from the bottle but it’s empty. A deep set frown settles over her lips and she lets the bottle fall to the floor. It thumps behind her on the plush hotel carpet as she shuffles from the doorway to the sitting room where her ‘husband’ is sitting and paying more attention to his chess set than any man ought to.

“We’re out,” She slurs her words, trying to keep her spine straight and head level. Illya doesn’t even bother looking up from the game. The sleeves of his turtleneck are rolled up, his flat cap is on his knee but the rest of him is still perfectly put together, not a golden hair out of place.

“I think you have had enough drink,” His low voice infuriates her with a fire that burns inside out. Gaby sucks in a sharp breath and lets her cheeks puff for just a moment before blowing out the little sigh.

“Call the desk and send more up, darling.” She uses the pet-name like a weapon, sharp on the tip of her tongue. If he’s not careful she will cut him to ribbons and Illya knows this. He’s known it since the first time they danced and she reminds him every mission that goes sour.

“Nyet.” He clicks his tongue and looks up finally, fingers pinching his queen’s piece as he does. Even in the dim light of the sitting room, she can see the way he swallows when she steps forward, she can’t tell if it’s fear in his eyes or something more because the world is too blurry, in and out of focus with all the alcohol coursing through her veins. Illya’s blue eyes do not look cold and distant, they look more like a rainstorm she wants to dance barefoot in.

“Yes,” She steps for him and catches the edge of the luxurious couch, nearly stumbling into the small table next to it. The lamp rocks back and forth but doesn’t fall. Gaby catches her knee on the back of the couch and hisses out a curse. A chuckle is heard over her foul language and she holds herself up until his hand slides under her upper arm and guides her up. Illya’s grip is soft and warm – he is so cautious she wishes he wouldn’t be with her. Still she let him pull her in, the faint scent of his cologne tickling her nose as she lets her head droop into his turtleneck. With no warning, he is carrying her again. Her legs wrap around his middle and her hands slide into his meticulous hair. The blunt edges of her nails rake gently over his scalp and she makes him turn his head back to look at her. The view from above is not one Gaby get’s very often. Usually she is on the ground looking up, usually her partners are the ones with the best sights, but right now, Gaby has the upper hand.

“What are you doing?” He asks with steady steps towards the bedroom. Illya does not tear his gaze from hers as her hands follow through his hair and then her thumbs drag along his jaw, tracing his bottom lip.

“Getting lost.”


	3. Nothing Wrong

**insomniabug asked: Gallya - "there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you"**

“Peril, you machine!”

There’s pride in the American’s voice, but Gaby isn’t so certain that Illya can hear it. There’s blood spattered across his face, making him a handsome work of macabre art. When she tries to wipe it away, he jerks back with wild eyes. His breathing is quick but he is careful to cover it when Napoleon reaches over and pats his back.

“Was nothing,” Illya whispers and he pulls his cap back on and drags his gun back to the holster under his arm. They’ve made it through a small army of hired goons after compromising the delivery of a drug shipment to a very well known smuggler in Panama. Gaby had tried to fight them off but she had been knocked down with a well placed punch to the soft apple of her cheek. When she had fallen, Illya had holstered his gun and took no time in helping their escape.

“Illya…” Gaby starts but he waves her off and they make their getaway, the salty sea air biting at her face as Napoleon charges the boat forward, crafting a heavy wake behind them. In the darkness of the sea, Gaby watches as he wipes at his face with a handkerchief that he throws overboard, not wanting to keep the blood stained fabric around. Napoleon steers with his back to them, humming a tune, ignoring them completely as Gaby makes her way across the back of the boat, holding tight to a line that stretches from one side ot the other. Her legs wobble back and forth, she believes she is not made for the ocean. Gaby is made for cars and bikes, heavy machinery and so much more. Boats make her stomach churn, but right now she can only focus on Illya.

Illya whose head is down while his fingers are tapping an endless dance along his wool covered knee. When she sits next to him the tapping only pauses for a moment, a slight hesitation in his world as she presses her thigh into his own. Then the moment passes and he taps once more, head down and breathing even. There are moments like these that Gaby believes he is hardly real.

It’s only when they’re back in the safe haven of their hotel that she watches him unravel with the bathroom door cracked open, his massive frame leaning over the porcelain sink. The water runs pink under his fingers as he keeps splashing at his face, scrubbing away the remaining bits of red that mark up his angelic features. Gaby pushes the door with the tip of her manicured finger, surprised she has yet to smudge the golden polish he had painstakingly painted on while holding her still earlier in the night.

“Illya –”

“Not now.” He bites out the cold words.

“I just,” She steps in now, not listening to his tone one bit as she nudges the bathroom door close behind her. “I just want to help.”

Illya doesn’t look at her, instead he lets his head cast down, blue eyes hidden, “I do not require help. As Cowboy says, I am a machine.”

“You are not!” It’s a shout that makes him wince as her voice echoes in the small lavatory.

“Gaby,” He still doesn’t look at her but she invites herself into his personal space, wrapping both arms around his shoulders as she stands on her tiptoes just to press her cheek into his shoulder blade.

“No, you listen.” She mutters into his turtleneck, “There is nothing wrong with you.”

A moment of silence ticks by and then he covers her hand with his own, squeezing her fingers gently.

**Author's Note:**

> I live! I know I haven't written anything for these two in so long so I am extremely happy to have flexed my fingers and written these little bite-sized bits for you all. Thank you to everyone who sends in prompts and I hope if I haven't gotten to yours or anything yet, that you don't feel discouraged. I'm still writing. It's a second job on top of my full time job so it just takes time and I appreciate the love and patience that the fandom has. Feel free to yell at me with these two on tumblr @meraoftheseas


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